Undying dream
by KyriaEternal
Summary: A noble-born, innocent, sixteen year old girl. A half warhero, half butcher drunkard from the lines of the enemy. They're forced into an arranged marriage. Their world on the brink of destruction. Can they save it? Can they save each other?
1. Scroll One: Insanity

_AN: Well, my dear Readers, this is my first fanfiction story posted. A huge thanks goes to **LongLiveTheClones**, being my first reader and wise mentor, and **Zoop **being my patient and heartening beta!_

_If anyone cares about it: I do not own M.A.G.U.S. or any part of it, only my original characters. _

* * *

**Undying Dream**

**Scroll One **

**Insanity  
**

The city woke to a rainy, grey dawn. It was as hopeless as any other during the month of Mist. The low-hanging clouds seemed to be boiling in the sky**. **A damp, cold wind howled among the bald trees, moaning and whining in the naked branches. Yellow, heavy heaps of dead leaves blanketed the paths of the palace-garden, absorbing the sound of the approaching group. The sky began to water again and painted the cloaks of the men a deeper black.

Rebeca could easily observe them from the height of the residential wing of the palace, through the window of her bed-chamber.

She had awoken from her restless sleep two hours earlier. The dim light of the lurking half moon had flown through the open window, together with the scent of dank moss. The girl, wrapped in her woolen blankets, had been staring at the carved ceiling for a long time. Human-faced birds and lithe mermaids looked down at her from the varnished oak. In the past, their enigmatic smiles always calmed her, but this time… she could not find any comfort in them.

Finally she got up, and put on her furred dressing-gown. She didn't call out for her chambermaids, choosing to tend the flickering fire in the great hearth with her own hands. And then she just leant on the windowsill and waited.

Now a new day was dawning. A day after which her life would never be the same: the day of her majority. This autumn – the sixteenth since her birth - brought her father, the _Concitator_ of the Far-East Fleet, home. He came after three years of absence, and now _he_ wanted to exert _his_ will about the fate of his only daughter. Childhood was over for Rebeca, and the indistinct future was approaching as unstoppably as the six men down on the rain soaked garden path.

Her gaze followed the little group as they came along the empty pool of the garden pond. Their heavy boots splattered mud and water over path. Four of them were members of the palace guard, bearing the lion crest of the royal family on their long dolphin-hide cloaks. They flanked the other two men with evident signs of respect.

As they neared, Rebeca recognized one of the men leading the way. He was Sinistro, her father's advisor or secretary or ... she was not sure. The skinny old man walked with a stoop, his hands folded behind his back. Though his duty chained him to the side of the _Concitator _in the far East, he often visited the palace. Rebeca suspected the eastern lord watched and eavesdropped on his abandoned home through Sinistro's eyes and ears. In spite of his role, and her suspicions, Rebeca came to like the old man. His sunken, blue eyes watched the world with patience and tolerance. And not only the world, but the tentative steps of a girl wrestling with her fate in it.

The girl, who officially wasn't a child any more, smiled. She turned her brightened look to the sixth early visitor. He was a stranger. Striding with huge steps, a hidden sword lifting the frayings folds of his black cloak. The sheer size of his body threatened Rebeca somehow. He bent down and said something to Sinistro that Rebeca couldn't hear from such a distance. Before she could see his face hidden by his hood, the group disappeared under the foot of the living-tower. The gate closed behind them with a loud bang, the sound reverberating even above the wailing of the wind.

The daughter of the Concitator left the window and called for her chambermaids. It was time to face whatever fate Destiny - in the guise of her father - had in store for her.

_oOoOoOoOo_

Some time later, a few rooms away, Destiny gave a taste of its power…

The hardwood floored, unheated, seldom used room was cluttered with heavy, dust-covered furniture. Marble-faced, somber ancestors stared down from the tapestries hanging on the walls their opinions about their descendants an eternal secret. The hearth yawned empty. The grey light flowing through the narrow windows painted the already grey walls an even deeper grey. By the huge table stood two armchairs. Sinistro occupied one of them, wrapped in his long robe up to his chin. He motioned to the stranger to sit down. The guest could have protested the poor reception or the cold receiving room, but he was not one to demand unnecessary fineries. He was one who favored efficiency.

He pushed his hood back, loosed the clasps of his cloak, and threw the wet garment onto the table. He wore a pitch-black battle armour, the device of a wing-spreading griffin forged in silver on his breastplate. Rich waves of snow white mane poured over his broad shoulders. On his hip he wore a flaming sword. Though the sheath was the simpliest black leather, still… an icy shudder passed over Sinistro as he felt the latent magic in the blade.

The man sat down, his gloved hand reaching for the scroll turned up from Sinistro's robe. With evident impatience, he unfolded the sealed parchment and began to read. His angled, stony face became darker and darker…

„Is this … some kind of … mischief?" he asked hoarsely when finished reading. His gaze - as glistening, icy blue as a glacier in a frosty morning - unnerved Sinistro greatly. Throwing the scroll onto the table, the man clenched his fist.

„I can assure you, Your Exellency, this is not." Sinistro replied, pretending that he didn't understand. „Every statement in this document has been cleared during the long months of prior negotiations, and ..."

„For Weila's sakes, I am speaking about the _clause_! In whose clouded mind was this insanity born?"

The strange man jumped up, the floorboard creaking loudly under his weight. He moved easily, as if he were not wearing seventy pounds of metal on his body. Striding to the hearth, he picked up the bottle from the mantel. Ignoring the glasses, he yanked out the cork with his bare teeth and took a huge swig right from the bottle. The nearly mechanical ease with which he drank the spirit carved a deep furrow on Sinistro's forehead.

The man abruptly turned back, white tresses flailing around his head, his face contorted with fury. A wide, callused palm squeezed the neck of the bottle as if it were someone's throat. With narrowed eyes he leaned over the table, and Sinistro instinctively recoiled in his chair.

„Again. Whom can I thank for my luck?" His whisper was low and dangerous, the last word like acid.

„I do not think that it has any significance" said Sinistro in a high voice. When he looked in those glacier blue eyes, he felt himself on the edge of a volcano-crater, moments before eruption. With a soothing smile frozen on his face, he went on, „As … you can see from the signatures, the Emperor of Toron and the First Shadd of Ryek both agreed that the peace treaty can't be put into effect without the clause, and …"

„They may go to the Seventh Hell!" roared the giant man with an outburst of anger. He cast the bottle into the hearth with such force, the thick glass shattered into a million shards. He circled the room like a caged lion, rage boiling around him like the storm clouds over the palace.

Sinistro just waited with an inscrutable face, his freezing hands in the sleeves of his robe, until his guest calmed somewhat. Finally the man huffed, and with a bitter grimace he said:

„That cursed Empire… When it lived, it required my _death_. Now, when it is dead, it wants to resurrect at the expense of my _life_." He was silent for a minute, staring into space with a grim expression. „I am bound by my vow. It must be done. Does the … girl know?"

Sinistro shook his head with a heavy sigh. With every minute spent in his guest's company, he agreed with the man more and more. This whole thing _was _insanity.


	2. Scroll Two: Suessa

_A/N: I wish I owned M.A.G.U.S., but unfortunately I don't.  
_

**Undying Dream**

**Scroll Two**

**Suessa  
**

The hot, scented bath and the long search for the perfect dress soothed Rebeca's dark thoughts. She was sitting in front of her spotless silver mirror, when she heard a deep male voice bellowing somewhere near: „They may go to the Seventh Hell!" She heard a startling crash of glass shattering on stone, then … silence. Menacing silence.

Rebeca met the chambermaid's eyes in the mirror. The poor girl had frozen in the act of brushing her lady's hair, and returned Rebeca's shocked look. Rebeca didn't know why, but a dreadful misgiving tightened her stomach.

She was ready when, an hour later, Sinistro arrived to escort her to the Family Council.

Sinistro bowed ceremoniously upon entering the room. To her surprise, he bowed more deeply than he ever had before. „ _Suessa_ Rebeca…"

The title of a noble - born lady, said to her for the first time… A single, simple word and yet… Rebeca felt dizzy. „Master Sinistro…" she murmured.

The fragile, grizzled old man scanned her for a minute through his wood-rimmed glasses. The dress that Rebeca had chosen for the occasion was gold-seamed, long, and white, made of feathery silk. A golden belt circled her slender waist.

Long, maroon hair came down to the small of her back in soft waves. The green jade earrings and necklace she wore, glinted in the hopelessly grey morning. Her rosy face was a little paler than usual; her delicate hands rested in her lap, the fingers entwined. The helpless fluttering of her big, olive-green eyes constricted Sinisto's throat.

„Time to go Suessa," he said in a low voice, and a serpent of conscience gnawed at his soul.

Rebeca wrapped herself in a velvet cloak against the chilly air, and followed the old man out into the hallway. They headed to the other wing of the palace, to the little boardroom, which, rumor had it, was the exact counterpart of the Concitator's boardroom on the Emperor Island. This room was used only on very special occasions. The high, winged doors had been opened only once during the past year, when the Concitator had received his elder brother, the Empire Resident of the eastern provinces, on a diplomatic visit.

Rebeca and Sinistro turned to the ambulatory. Along one wall stood a dozen ancient battle armours, witnesses of the long lost glory of the Kyr Empire. They stood motionless; the free will given them once by the Mighty Ones had been slumbering in them silently for one and a half centuries. A chill came over Rebeca as she passed beneath the shadow of the black, blue and green giants. The eye slits in the helmets were empty, black holes and yet… she thought, for a moment, something stirred in the dark depths. She sighed and shook her head. Only her nerves. Nothing more.

„Don't worry Suessa" said Sinistro, noticing the girl's discomfort but misunderstanding it. „Your father wants the best for you!"

„The best for me?" asked Rebeca sardonically. The bitter grimace on her face seemed out of place on such a young girl. „How would he know what is best for me? He doesn't even know me! He hasn't been at home for years! He spends more time with his captains than with his family!"

Sinstro wanted to reply, but found he had nothing to say. What could he have said?

On the far end of the ambulatory they saw the door of the boardroom. Two elite guards guarded it, their motionless stance reminding Rebeca of the battle armours. Now one of them came to life, opening the door and loudly announcing:

„Suessa Rebeca on-Shinean, daughter of His Exellency the Concitator, to the Family Council!"

Rebeca had no more to do than enter.

The room seemed to be more like a library than a boardroom. Red and purple rugs covered the floor under the huge oak table. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the great windows looked out onto the garden, and warm flames crackled in the hearth. The air filled with the scent of ancient, brittle parchments and the soft light of little red oil lamps. So peaceful… At least, it would have been, if it had been empty. Rebeca apprehensively eyed the three people waiting for her.

First she saw her mother. The woman sat closest to the hearth. She wore a white gown, her face almost as pale as her dress. A heavy golden necklace glinted as she picked up a crystal chalice filled with deep red wine. Her hand was shaking. When Rebeca looked her mother in the eye, she realized her father hadn't shared his intentions with his wife.

Rage filled her, as she turned to the man presiding. The sea winds carved early wrinkles into Trodar on-Shinean's forty-five year old face. His hair was as ash-grey as every noble-born man's hair in the Toron Empire. His high temple traditionally indicated a sign of genius. Tight lips and a slate-grey gaze hardened his features to match his will, with which the Toron Empire conquered this corner of the world. The family's golden lions decorated his red-purple robe, and the concitatorial seal-ring hung about his neck. Two scrolls, one larger than the other, lay before him on the table.

By a window, its back to the room, sat a huge, black armoured figure. Rebeca couldn't see his face, but she recognized the giant man who arrived at the palace with Sinistro. The man didn't turn as they entered the room. Resting his chin on one of his gloved fists, he stared out the window onto the garden. If Rebeca hadn't been so agitated, she would have pondered the reason why a complete stranger was sitting in the Family Council.

Trodar on-Shinean sat with a straight spine, his strong, brown hands playing with the smaller scroll.

„Rebeca, today you have reached your majority," he said on a cold, commanding voice „You also must take the path of duty. I and my brother, the head of our family have decided your future. Hear it now, child."

He paused for a moment, watching his daughter standing in front of him. His emotionless, calculating gaze met Rebeca's defiant, almost desperate look. Sinistro sighed. He didn't have to be a mentalist to see the hidden desire for love and care behind that defiance. 'It is not too late yet,' he sent with the silent mindspeech to the Concitator. 'There is still time to show your emotions to your only child….' However, Trodar continued on as if Sinistro's words in his mind went unheeded, and the mentalist's heart sank.. '… if you have any.'

„For the glory of the Toron Empire and our family, we decided that in the absence of a male heir, after the death of myself and my brother, you must follow as head of the family. We have the gracious consent of His Majesty the Emperor to our decision."

In the deep, stunned silence he picked up the little scroll. The parchment swished and came loose, the chimaera-shaped golden seal of the Emperor glittering triumphantly on it.

„What is the meaning of this?" croaked Rebeca. Her throat was dry like the desert of Ibara.

„It means," Trodar stated proudly, the only emotion he allowed himself this morning „that while I serve in the court of the Empire Resident, you must take my place on the Emperor Island on the far east sea, along with your ….." He stammered for a moment, momentarily unable to speak. „With another person. But above all else, you must earn the trust of the Emperor! You must complete a task."


	3. Scroll Three: The task

_AN: As usual, I don't own M.A.G.U.S., or any part of it, only my original characters. _

_My everlasting gratitude to **Zoop** and **LongLiveTheClones!**  
_**  
**

******Undying dream**

******Scroll Three**

**The task  
**

Rebeca couldn't say a word. The dark fears and doubts of the morning were nothing compared to this. The enormity of the future, the feeling of complete … incompetency twisted her guts. How could she … represent… make deceisions… lead? Her chaotic thoughts were whirling wildly. How could she… on the Emperor Island? How… alone? Bile rose to her mouth, she felt the last drop of blood descending from her head. She swalloved hard and trid to clear her throat.

Her father gestured to the closest chair and she flopped down next to her mother. Her blurred eyes ventured to the tears on her mother's face. From now on the elder woman will live caged into her loneliness. Duty, this foul tyrant will curtail her not only of her husband but of her daughter too. Rebeca slowly reached for her mother's hand, gently squeezed her icy cold fingers. The pain of another person, someone who needed her resolve gave her strength back.

She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Wanly she felt the waves of reassurance emanating from Sinistro. Suddenly she realized that she didn't need it. Curiosity bubbled up from the back of her mind. What could the Emperor himself want from an insignificant person like her? She raised her look to her father and asked:

„I am listening Your Exellency. What am I obliged to do?"

Hearing her bald question a faint spark of approval flashed in Trodar's grey eyes. With a strained smile he replied:

„A week ago we have concluded the peace-treaty called Concordia between the Toron Empire and Ryek, establishing the New Kyr Empire. Though today the existence of the Concordia will be enunciated, its exact terms must remain secret. You, from the favor of His Majesty, will be one of the dozen person who may know its content. Read!"

With that he pushed the greater scroll towards Rebeca. The man sitting by the window slowly turned his chair towards the room. He pulled the hood even more into his face and cast a blank look onto his muddy boots.

Rebeca's fingers were shaking when she unknotted the leather string holding the scroll together. On the string she saw two large seals, one of them forming a chimaera the other an unicorn. Chimaera and unicorn… Toron and Ryek… Ancient enemies, malignant children in a raging war above the carcasse of their mother, the Old Kyr Empire.

Rebeca gulped as she slowly unfolded the invaluable document. Her vision blurred, she hardly saw the curlicues written with red ink. She desperatelly tried to concentrate.

Academies for mages under the common supervision of the two empires… Harmonizing their politics regarding to the churches of the old and new gods… Mutual help against third parties… Rebeca sighed as she attempted to catch the deeper meaning behind the letters.

In the last paragraph… there was everything. The control above the endless waters of the Quiron-sea: the location of the Emperor Islands and the size of the fleets of Toron, the secret harbors and the hidden net of range gates of Ryek. Rebeca's breath hitched in her throat. She shivered with dawning understanding: on this flimsy parchment laid the two enemy completely _at the mercy_ of each other. The token of the status quo between Toron and Ryek will be the collaboration between the lords of the home fleets. The future of the newborn empire has been put on the shoulders of the Concitator of the Far-East Fleet of Toron and the First Warlord of Ryek.

Rebeca looked up breathless, flabbergasted by the gift given to her father: the absolute trust of the Emperor and immense power. Trodar watched her with a jovial smile. He felt pride. Her doughter seemed to understand the magnitude of his current position. Well, this way she may be more recipient to what .. what she must accept.

In a minute the girl sunk back into reading the Concordia. She didn't feel the glacier blue gaze scrutinizing her. As the meaning of the last lines hit home her face became ghost-pale. Her hands began shaking, her fingers so numb that the scroll slipped onto the table. „It can't be!" she whimpered. Her pleading eyes on her father. The Concitator's expression darkened.

„It is your duty" he said coldly, weariness lacing his voice. „For the family and the Empire." He could felt some compassion though, because he went on in a softer tone. „It is hardly acceptable for me too, but destiny has left us no other choice. The peace of the newly raising Kyr Empire will be the peace between armies. The peace between armies demands peace between the two warlords. And that means the union of the two families. You must marry the First Warlord of Ryek."

Rebeca couldn't answer, couldn't move, she could hardly breathe. Her whole world shattered under the weight of that cursed flimsy. Her every hope, her every dream …. Her heart sank. She had hope no more, and her dreams had died a minute ago. She felt nothing but the bitter taste of duty and the fear crawling up from her guts. She had been thrown to the feet of the enemy, at the mercy of … she didn't even know whom!

Time froze, nobody moved. Deep silence reigned, only a doleful waft was hissing in the chimney. After an endless minute Rebeca nodded. One single tear rolled down her pale face.

The strapping man chose this moment to kick his chair up and jump to his feet. With a deep growl he stormed out of the room. As he passed along Sinistro, the old man slipped onto the table with a low moan. The rage fulminating from the giant almost knocked him out. 'Gods, what a powerful mind!' he thought. Trembling with shock he hold on the edge of the table.

The First Warlord of Ryek pressed his forehead to one of the coloumns in the ambulatory. The cold marble felt good. It slowly soothed the frenzy and saved the last shreds of his sanity. He hid his face flaming with shame and anger into the shadow of his mane. He was a hard man, known as brusque and cruel, but now … what they had done freaked him out. With a few, simple words they crushed the heart of this unfortunate girl. Gods, how young she is! How fragile and delicate! ('And how beautiful' whispered a low voice somewhere inside him, but he ignored it.)

He slowly managed to suppress the unusual heaving of his consience. The door of the board-room opened and the ladies of the on-Shinean family came out. They didn't pay any attention to him. Rebeca was talking to her mother, the Warlord heard her endearing voice as she was trying to ease the other woman's pain. Rebeca didn't cry, a faint smile on her delicate features. The sweet scent of her skin stroked the man's face like a gentle, invisible hand. The First Warlord of Ryek just stood there unable to move or speak.

Suddenly Trodar on-Shinean appeared in the doorway. As he saw the Warlord staring after her doughter, he winced. He beckoned to the man and turned back to the board-room with a red-purple swirl of his silk robe. The Warlord threw one more glance at his betrothed, then followed the Concitator.


	4. Scroll Four: Bastards we are

_Well, I am here with a new chapter. I would like to dedicate it to an amazing author, **Zoop**, and to my wise mentor, **LongLiveTheClones.**_

_I wish I owned M.A.G.U.S. - not for money, but for pride. But unfortunately I don't._

* * *

**Undying Dream**

**Scroll Four**

**Bastards we are**

Trodar on-Shinean stood in front of the window, his hands laced behind his back, his blank look resting on the bold trees in the garden. 'We all end like those trees.' he thought with a sigh 'Naked and dead, bereft of everything.'

The strain of the last weeks has corroded his composure, the diplomat inside him could hardly control the temper of the captain and …. father. He sighed deeply again as the door closed behind the entering Warlord. The floorboard cracked under his almost four hundred pounds heavy steps.

Trodar faced his guest. He has seen the giant figure, the snow white mane countless times during the last decades. They have met in the bloody whirlwind of many battlefields, watching each other over mountains of decaying corpses. 'He has been my deadliest enemy for thirty years. How could this world turn to upside down so much that he would become my son-in-law?' he asked himself tiredly.

With a brief movement he gestured his guest to sit down but the Warlord only shook his head. He joined the Concitator by the window. They were glaring at the cloudy morning, both of them lost deep in thought.

After a long, loaded silence Trodar finally spoke. „The future of an empire is depending on us. Our burden is excrutiatingly heavy. We have to serve the newborn Kyr Empire with everything we have. Our responsibility…"

„We both know our duty!" Trodar was silenced by the fuming Warlord. „And we will comply with our assignment. There is no need for that cursed clause!"

„That clause will assure our commitment to the task and to each other. You have to face it Warlord." Trodar said impatiently. „Unimaginable power has been given to us. All armies of Toron and Ryek obey _our_ commands. The Emperor and the First Shadd want to be sure that we follow their intentions, not our own ones. That we join our forces as obidiently as we killed each other till now."

„Is our vow not enough?" The giant's voice was not more than a growl now, low and dangerous from the back of his throat. His face was getting red again with indignation and humiliation. „Do they want to _force_ us to serve them? To blackmail us … to chain us…with your daughter?"

„The future generations will judge your marriage as _necessary_" Trodar's resignation began to dissipate as he answered with a hint of anger in his voice. „The greater good demands …."

„To hell with the greater good!" bellowed the Warlord. „Filthy bastards we are, if we consent to this!" gritting his teeth he swallowed his rage. His voice became even lower, bitter and sharp like a blade „You know quite well who and what I am. Inspite of that you would give your child to me. What kind of life, do you think, she would have with me?"

„A happy one, I demand" Trodar hissed abruptly, his hate finally visible „Do you think I am happy to give my only daughter to a remorseless, ferocius butcher? To a loathsome drunkard who had been our enemy all my life?" he spat the words with disdain „Yes I know you well! You are made of steel and stone. But if you dare to break my daughter's heart, I will kill you with my own hands, you son of a bich!"

He was trembling with hatred, his grey eyes tore into icy blue ones. The Warlord didn't seem to be offended by his words. Instead of beeing resentful, a fathomless, ominous expression darkened his face. „You don't understand Concitator. Butcher, drunkard… I wish I were only that." He was scrutinizing Trodar for a long moment, then with a resigned huff he said „No matter. However things may turn out, I'll try to make your daughter happy. You have my word."

He bowed his head to his would-be father-in-low first and last time in his life and left the room.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

„Who is that certain Warlord, Sinistro? Who is going to be… my husband?" The question was low and uncertain, fear hidden behind every word. Rebeca sat on her hunkers in the rose scented shelter of her room. She embraced a woolen blanket to her, as if it could yield the heart-screwing frost she felt. Sinistro was sitting next to her, his gaze filled with concern and it never left Rebeca's desperate eyes. Now he replied in a soothing, low voice. „His name is Gorban Lyalmur. He's a pure-blood kyr, the last living hero of the Old Empire: a mortor."

„Mortor" Rebeca whispered. A word in the language wich was more ancient than the Empire itself. „Devastator"

Sinistro nodded and went on „He fought in the last great battle, saw the Old Empire before its fall."

„But he must be…" Rebeca faltered. That battle was _very_ long ago, momentarly she couldn't even calculate how long ago.

„He turned 269 years old this summer." Sinistro nodded again. „But the magic of his Master - who had been a Mighty One once - has stopped his aging. He is rumored to be one of the best swordsmen of the continent. His fidelity to the Old Kyr Empire is beyond reproach. Because of this traits he was chosen to restore the Empire together with your father. And as his wife Suessa, you'll become the part of the greatest mission of the Sixth Age."

„Never heard of him." murmured Rebeca with a dry mouth. „If he is such a hero, a champion of the Old Empire, why did I never hear of him?"

„Enemies not often praise each other." Sinistro shrugged, secretly relieved by Rebeca's ignorance. He didn't intend to mention the other side of the Warlord, the gruffy, boozy veteran.

„What were they like?" Rebeca asked after a minute of silence.

„Who, Suessa?"

„Kyr people"

Sinistro's smile was sad and somehow distant. „We are degenerated curs compared to them. The power of their mind, the light and darkness in their hearts… lifted them higher and cast them deeper than we mixed-blood bastards could imagine. They were giants among us and not only in figure."

„The wedding… when will it take place?" Rebeca asked as if she didn't hear her mentor's last words.

„Tomorrow. Midday." Sinistro swallowed hard.

„And when do I have to… meet… him?" the girl's voice was nearly a whisper. Sinistro squirmed, his eyes fell. „You have already met him Suessa. He was present in the Family Council."

That was too much for Rebeca. She was put up for sale behind her back and that… that … old fogey has already mustered the commodity. Shame, humiliation and betrayal tore into her heart. She doubled up, tears blurred her vision. Without a sound she dismissed Sinistro. He went out silently, his heart filled with agonizing remorse.

Rebeca had laid limp for more than an hour before she could think or feel again. She tried to evoke the giant she had seen in the board-room, but failed. All she could remember were broad shoulders and a few strands of white hair escaping a hood. All of a sudden a question bleed into her mind 'If Gorban Lyalmur is so dedicated for the idea of the Kyr Empire, why did he fought against us till now?'

With grim determination she got up and left for the board-room.

The guards disappeared, the room was empty. With a relieved sigh Rebeca began to search. The twilight came early and she could hardly see anything, when she found what she needed. Behind closed doors she opened the chronicle called 'History of Kyria' written by Tristamus Davore. Davore, the most famous historian of the Fifth Age left mortal world after the Five Hundred Years War, when the old Kyr Empire and the Fifth Age of the world ended. Davore followed the last Kyr Emperor but before that he left his chronicle to his apprentices. Rebeca didn't know how, but the on-Shinean family took possession of the two tomes during the one and a half century since the war.

The girl was slowly browsing the scratchy handwriting. When well after midnight she fell asleep she knew something more about the family Lyalmur.

Many legendary Lyalmur ancestors (all of them Devastators) fought with glory and died for the old Kyr Empire during the war. That war was raging half a millennia long against the evil goddess Orwella. After the fall the last Emperor left mortal realm. All the most powerful mages of the Empire (the Mighty Ones) followed him except of ten. One of the ten cut himself adrift from the other nine and didn't stay in Toron. His name was Odassyn Ceriak. He wondered eastward and sixty-four years after the fall he established the city of Ryek. From a lonely Mighty One Ceriak became the First Shadd. From a ruined tower his city became a mage-empire rivaling with Toron. And from the last living Devastator Gorban Lyalmur became the First Warlord of Ryek. And not only that, but the unforgiving enemy of the nine Mighty Ones of Toron too.

Rebeca was born during the war fuming between Toron and Ryek. She never doubted that the true heir of the old Empire was Toron and Ryek was a bunch of power-hungry demon-worshippers. But now… the words of Tristamus Davore baffled her. The chroniclers in Toron didn't waste an upstroke for the fact that only nine Mighty Ones had been accused with treason by the last Emperor and Odassin Ceriak _hadn't been_ among them. The chronicles of Toron forgot to mention that at the end of the war there had been only two blazons glistening spotless, without shame: the black unicorn of Ceriak and the silver griffin of Lyalmur.

Rebeca stared at the obliterated, swishing pages. The words of a long dead man insecured her. Could this be true? What she has been taught, what she has believed is not history but a bare lie?

She closed and stroked the fusty, mice-chewed tome. The chronicle of a long lost age. Its characters have been buried in dusted vaults for centuries, sunk into oblivion together with their whole dinasties. The only remains are ragged epitaphs and dry bones. But there are exceptions. One of them is here, walking and breathing a few rooms away from her... and from tomorrow he will rule her fate.

Her whole body trembled with that thought. With scared, abrupt movements she covered the Davore chronicles into a coloured shawl and hid them into one of her crates under her garments. She had no intention to take them back into the board-room that her father could hide them again. She decided to read them to the last word.

But now she had to do one more thing on this hateful day. She has to memorize the matrimonial vow for tomorrow. It laid on her bedside table, written on a grey parchment. Rebeca didn't know who had left it there to remind her of her duty. Must be a cruel person.

Her grin was bitter and contorted her face. How obidient, how subdued she was. She didn't protest neither in word nor in deed. She didn't even cry much. She didn't run away. She disdained herself deeply for her helplessness. But where could she run to? She had no friends to hide her. Had no knight in shining armour to save her.

'No. That's not true' she thought ironically 'My knight did come for me. Sorry for that he is a stranger who yesterday was an enemy yet. Sorry for that he will take me without love. Sorry for loosing my life before it could even start.' Her hollow laughter shook her body. Reluctantly she picked up the parchment with the vow. After it she was sitting in a dark corner of her room for a long time without even unfolding it.


	5. Scroll Five: Wedding

_Only my OCs belong to me._

* * *

**Scroll Five**

**Wedding  
**

After a few hours of sleep a new day has come. Rebeca woke from chaotic nightmares, threatening images were muddling her mind. She was surprised she could sleep anyway.

An army of chambermaids was fussing round from early dawn. Rebeca was getting annoyed with their constant bustling and chatting. She stood in the middle of her room, freezing in the morning-chill. The maids were brushing her hair and oiling her body with flower scented ointments. Then they dressed Rebeca into a white embroidered mauve dress. The shoulders of the dress and the skirt was rimmed with white lace. 'The sewing of this dress' Rebeca's musing was sour 'must have taken weeks. They had begun to make it long _before_ the Concordia was sealed.' Suddenly she felt like the feathery silk would choke her. Her father betrayed her. The man she hadrly knew, but trusted. Trusted, because she had no one else to trust.

Silently, without a tear she let the maids wimple her hair and face with white lace. Finally they led her into the little chapel consecrated to Weila.

The chapel wasn't large. It was made for personal meditation and prayers, rather than high masses. White walls, yellow marble columns and light, autumn sunshine through the painted glass windows…

A smaller crowd was waiting for Rebeca, they surrounded the stairway leading up to the altar. Rebeca didn't waste a look at them. Most of them were strangers. The courtlies of the Concitator and the Emperor. The grey-haired aristocracy of the Toron Empire. Gold embroidered robes, diamond decorated braids, lofty even arrogant glances…

On the first step she was greeted by her father and Sinisto. Rebeca didn't see her mother anywhere. No matter. She could not help. His father said something about duty (how she hated that word!), Sinistro about sacrifice before they left her alone. Alone to wait for the man whom she didn't see, didn't talk to, and whom she must swear love and faith. For eternity.

She looked up at the priest of Weila standing by the altar. Suddenly she felt dizzy. The whole day was like a mad hurricane, which whirled her away instoppably, and she couldn't resist. She lacked the strength to do so. Her teeth were clattering from cold and helplessness. She tried to pray, but her mind was numb.

When an excited murmur spread through the crowd behind her, she slowly turned. Sunshine brightened the chapel, and gave a silvery shimmer to Gorban's armour. The burly man's snow white main poured down to the middle of his back. His shoulders were broader than any man's Rebeca has ever seen. Approaching with heavy steps, he moved as graceful as a bison. Brute strength and aggression embodied in him.

Rebeca stared at him agape. Gorban obviously wasn't a man from Toron, and he obviously wasn't… _old_. He was a _kyr_, with the purest blood of the white-haired ancestors in his veins. The power of a twenty thousand years long glorious empire almost visibly radiated from him. The other aristocrats were not more than pale shadows around him.

As the First Warlord of Ryek stepped beside her, Rebeca dared to look up at him. Gorban was not handsome. A tanned, war-worn face, angled features carved into granite… Wrinkles in the corner of his glacier-blue eyes displaying not more than fifty years…With a sullen frown he stared somewhere into the air, like before marching into battle.

The priest shot a look of disapproval to Rebeca, and her eyes fell. All of a sudden Gorban take her hand in his. His strong, calloused fingers held hers with suprising gentleness. As he got down on his knees, he pulled the girl down with him. The ceremony began.

Later Rebeca couldn't recall what had happened. She remembered only freezing, and feeling sick. Somehow she managed to falter out the words the priest fortold for her, her voice nearly a whisper. She heard from afar as Gorban swore to protect and love her till the end of her days. There was something in his deep voice what gave her the strange feeling that Gorban _meant_ what he said.

The priest was speaking, his words an uninteligible burble in Rebeca's ears. The cold was slowly crawling up from her knees, cramping her body. After a time, which seemed to be an eternity, Gorban stood up and she obidiently rose with him. The wedding guests were cheering, the priest was smiling when Gorban's huge hands lifted the veil from her face.

Rebeca stared at him, with wide, almost glassy eyes. Her whole body trembled. Gorban cupped her chin tenderly, his thumb stroked her jawbone. Weariness and steely willpower was beaming from his unbelievably blue eyes, and some kind of … deep compassion, which Rebeca couldn't decipher. Her eyes involuntarily shut when Gorban closed the distance between them. She felt his lips briefly brushing against hers. The kiss was light, almost … chaste. Not possessive or obtrusive in any way, and yet…. Rebeca felt chains coiling up around her body.

That was all then. She became the prisoner of this man for all her life long.

They slowly left the chapel, in the rain of flower petals in thousand colours. The dense crowd closed around them, everyone congratulating. A dissonant chorus of hollow compliments in their ears… A see of strained, false smiles… Sweaty palms squeezing Gorban's arm and stroking Rebeca's dress… A heavy scent of rose-oil was choking them. Suddenly all air was pressed out of Rebeca's lunges, a strange hissing sound filled her ears. Her vision grew dim, and her weakened legs gave up. She faintly felt a hard, muscled arm cuddling her waist, and holding her easily, then … nothing.

Gorban shot a glance at her ghost-pale face, then his gaze searched for Sinistro. When he found the old man, with a jerk of his head he sent him to the exit. Gorban quickened his pace, the crowd opened before him. When finally got out, he gathered up Rebeca into his arms. He bit his lower lip when the girl's head fell onto his chest.

„Guide me!" he barked at Sinistro with a grim face. Without a word he took his wife into the set of rooms which was prepared for their wedding-night, and left her in the care of her chambermaids.

Gorban was pacing the ambulatory, not knowing what to do. He wished to calm Rebeca down, ease her fear, but he had no idea how to say it. He was quite a taciturn man (when not in frenzy), so finally he was suffering silently all afternoon long. He spent hours on the empty ambulatory, walking up and down along the sleeping battlearmours. As he was passing them again and again, the living armours recognized the Devastator. After one and a half century, a glowing blue light woke in their eye-crevices. As Gorban stroked one of them, the throbbing of life recognizable only for him, answered his touch. „Rather hundread deaths, my brothers, than one marriage." he murmured.

„Kyria eternal, mortor! What can we do for you?" a whisper among his thoughts greeted him. A long-not-heard metallic sound behind his temple. He shook his head. „Nothing, brother. Rest!" said he in a low voice.

'Here I am. On my wedding day. All alone, talking to armours called my brothers.' he thought with a sigh. His deep, bitter laughter reverberated through the empty yawning corridors.


	6. Scroll Six: That night and the morning

_I do not own M.A.G.U.S. only my OCs._

* * *

**Undying dream**

**Scroll Six**

**That night and the morning after**

The hours passed excrutiatengly slowly, the dinner was endless and boring and yet … Rebeca whished that it could last forever.

Yellow-golden light of torches and candles enlightened the great hall. The long tables were heavy-laden with large bowls of meat and rich sauces. Up on the gallery a band of musicians were playing, the sound of flutes and drums was dubbing the murmuring voice of the crowd. The guests around the tables spread comfortably in their chairs laughing and chatting, many of them already drunken.

The newly weds were sitting opposite each other. That at least reprieved them from having to talk to each other. None of them would have known what to say.

Rebeca was sitting on the left side of her father. She barely touched the roasted beef and cinnamon sauce in front of her. She warily sipped into the cider bubbling in her silver cup. She was gawking at the crowd deep in thought. The future stood toe to toe with her and she felt herself alone. Hopelessly, horribly alone.

Defencelessness and fear pulled her into a cold embrace. And that fear was growing with every passing moment. Her face was as pale as the white lace covering her shoulders. That – though she didn't know it - made her the exact counterpart of her mother.

oOoOoOoOo

The woman visited her that afternoon after she had passed out in the chapel. She sent the maids away and sat on the edge of Rebeca's bed. They were silent for a time, avoiding to look at each other. Finally Rebeca asked in a low voice: „What will happen to me, mother?"

For a moment there was pain in the elder woman's eyes. Her hand reached for Rebeca's face, but recoiled only an inch far from it. She only brushed a mop of hair from her forehead.

„I do not know, my child." she whispered. „I do not know what kind of a man he is. I can only hope, that in his heart you will find … mercy."

The words came out creakingly, as if it would be very hard to say them. The woman sighed. Rebeca's hand went for hers, their fingers entwined. The touch of her mother was icy cold and … unresponsive somehow. Rebeca already felt that she couldn't expect more.

„You must be strong, my child." said her mother, pulling her fingers out of Rebeca's palm. She rose and started for the door. The rustling of her silk robe seemed to be a rude noise in the loaded silence. Her hand was already on the doorhandle when Rebeca asked: „And you, mother? Have _you_ found mercy in the heart of my father?"

The woman stopped for a moment, then left the room. She didn't answered, and with it … she answered. That silence, that answer threatened Rebeca more than anything else during her whole life.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Gorban saw the bubble of mute silence around Rebeca. She hasn't spoken with anybody for hours. Like a martyr. She was already dead for the others.

That thought infuriated him again. He hated everything and everyone in his inner frenzy: the Concitator, the dead Kyr Empire, the whole cursed Sixth Age, and himself the most. Only that beautiful, sixteen year old girl he couldn't hate. The girl who was forced by _him_ to bound her life to him. 'She can thank that to herself.' shrugged the cynic Devastator within him 'She said yes.' With a soft crack his grip crushed his silver cup. The wine red like blood was flowing down on his fist. 'She can thank that to _me_! I didn't say no either.'

He watched silently as Rebeca's gaze was getting hunted more and more as the night passed. 'She is frightened by me. By Gods, I can understand her.' Well past midnight he finally gathered enough courage, and beckoned Sinistro to him.

„Your Suessa is very exhausted. Tell her that she can … withdraw. Tell her that I won't… " he stammered „ ... er… disturb her."

Sinistro looked at his reddening face and then with newly born respect he bowed his head to him. Rebeca slipped away almost immediately, her mistrustful blink rested on Gorban's face for a moment.

Gorban followed her an hour and two bottles of wine later. The cheerful hurrah of the drunken bridal party and a dark glance from the Concitator haunted him on the corridor.

He hardly found the set of rooms prepared for them. A very concerned old man was waiting for him, leaning against the doorframe. Sinistro looked up at him and said: „Your wife is sleeping, Your Exellency. I gave her a cup of milk with poppy. It will ease her … dreams."

„Well done" Gorban nodded. Sinistro was staring at him for a moment, then he sighed and went without a word. Gorban was standing in front of the door pricking his ears hard, but there was no sound from inside. His mouth run dry, the cramp felt before battles was screwing his stomach. Carefully he pushed the doorhandle and entered.

The room was almost entirely dark, the flickering fire gave a faint red to the walls and the bedlinen… and the girl sleeping in it. Gorban tore his gaze from her. Though the world was spinning with him, his heavy steps were straight and steady as he went to the table. He picked an upholestered armchair up and took it to the hearth.

He nestled himself and stared at the flames blankly. The armour he wore gave him no comfort. Not his body, but his _soul_ felt its weight.

Now there was a burning ache in his chest, caused by the Concitator's words last day. '… a remorseless, ferocius butcher… a loathsome drunkard…' It wouldn't have been so painful, if it hadn't been true. 'How have I got to this?' he asked himself.

He was thinking about the quarter millennia spent on bloody battlefields. The literally countless dead sent by him to their gods… His wounds with which the mistakes made in battle warned him to the imperfection of every creature. He was thinking about the laurels he won as a Devastator. The glory wich wouldn't fade, as the scars wouldn't fade on his body. The glory, which would only disappear together with the last written chronicle of Kyria.

Now, as he was guarding the dream of his young wife, he realized that glory was not enough. His name became a legend, he was the invincible hero of whole _generations_, but all of that futile, without avail. Life passed by him, without twitter of birds, roses, love or laugh of a child. Even the simpliest shipwrights or potters could have got something to make them _men_: family. Wives crying for them, children playing with them.

But he had nothing but the pain of old wounds when raining, a bottle of liquor and ever silent loneliness.

'You are alone. Long outlasted your own era. What did you expect?' he asked himself in the sudden moment of discernment. During the last years only drunkenness gave him enough courage to face his fate. When he was sober, it was too painful to accept that this fate was chosen by _himself_.

The cracking of the fire died away, the light began to tarnish. Gorban moved and put new logs into the hearth. With a deep sigh he rose his head, his gaze involuntarily lingering on Rebeca. Her maroon tresses spread out on the pillow, softly framing her face. Her face was so … peachy, so pure, so … he didn't know words worthy of her. Gorban swalloved hard. He swore not to think of that, but something, maybe the wine, reminded him that _kiss_. A hot wave of blood overran his face. 'You are drunk!' he scolded himself in shame.

Then he remembered the last time he had kissed a woman. This girl hadn't even been born yet then. Niether her father. And that kiss had been _bought_ from a whore. He bubbled over with a bitter chuckle, a sneer on his face. In a minute he closed his eyes and forced himself not to open them. With sheer willpower he slowly drifted off to sleep.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Rebeca woke at sunrise. On the windowsill a mockingbird was sitting, preening its feathers. Warm, yellow light filled the room, motes of dust were dancing slowly in the air. First she didn't know where she was. The grey stone cieling above her was so strange. Then Sinistro's opiate let her mind go free and suddenly she remembered everything. For a moment she panicked, trembling as reality grabbed her. Then she realized that she was alone in the wedding-bed and she had been alone all night long. A huge wave of relief washed over her. She escaped! At least for now.

Then she saw Gorban. He was sleeping in a comfortable chair next to the hearth, armoured to the chin. Booted feet up on the guard, white-mane head resting on the back of the chair, jaw unshaven. He was neither a proud Warlord, nor a legendary Devastator. He was a happy husband the least of all. Rebeca saw only an exhausted, lonely man. And then– inspite of all her fears – she felt a fraction of pity for him. And gratitude.

She dared to roll out of her blankets. She headed to the small bath attached to the room. Its door was opposite the bed. Barefoot, with silent steps she crossed the room behind Gorban's back. The door of the bath opened with a high squeak.

Gorban woke with a start to an inaudible noise. With tensing muscles he jerked to a sitting position, his hand immediately searched the hilt of his sword. His eyes had been scanning the room before he even realized where he was. The next moment with a deep sigh he leant back. Rebeca disappeared.

An annoying sunbeam shone straight into his eyes, a dull pain was throbbing behind his forehead. His throat was excrutiatingly dry, he felt the stench of fat and spirits from last night lingering on him. For a minute he wished that the day before had been only a bad dream.

Gorban yanked his boots off. Then with a low moan he scrambled to his feet and slowly stripped himself out of the armour. In a few minutes he stood there shirtless, wearing only a faded breeches. He was yearning for a great tub of hot water to sink into it to feel nothing. Neither shame, nor doubt, nor remorse.

Blinking sleepily he entered the bath and his feet rooted into the door-step. Rebeca was leaning above the shallow pool made of grey marble, her lithe frame covered only with a thin sheet. The most beautiful frame he had ever laid his eyes on, thought Gorban. The sheet was short, showing her slender legs up to her thighs. Her hair in a loose bun, water drops glimmering on her bare shoulders and arms. Gorban simply couldn't resist, his admiring look greedly sweeping on her body.

Rebeca straightened. Her graceful motion sent a shiver along Gorban's spine. The girl stared at him with wide eyes.

Rough, ragged scars – like abhorrent worms - wove the muscles on Gorban's shoulders. His skin was distorted around them. The wounds must have been deep, as if steel claws had torn his flesh some time ago.

Rebeca couldn't turn her gaze from him, and Gorban saw disgust and abhorrance in it. The honest, almost childish admiration was wiped out from his eyes. A flash of hurt and after that nothing but a reserved, ice-blue… emptiness. With a choking groan he stepped back and slammed the door. In a minute the door of their suite was shut too.

Gorban just went wherever his legs carried him to. He turned his head down, but didn't see the red marble floor before him. He could have bellowed in anguish, though if someone had asked him, he could't have told why. Somehow he got out of the palace. When the guards standing at the gate leant their bills for him, he lifted his blood-shot eyes.

A little square laid before him, paved with cobbles. On the other side of the square elegant palaces formed a line, homes of noble families. Only one building was different. A two storeyed house, it's wrought iron gate is opened invitingly. The inn adressed to the Mug.

The desire for a hot bath, a clean tunic and a long sleep died in Gorban. There was nothing left but bare thirst which belonged rather to his heart than to his throat. With determined steps he crossed the square.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Rebeca has been standing next to the pool for a long time. She was benumbed by the heart-breaking, deep hurt she saw for a moment in her husband's eyes. 'What have I done?' she mumbled to herself.

oOoOoOoOoOo

„Bring more beer or I will gut you, you gallows-bird!"

It wasn't noon yet, but the inn-keeper was toting the third little barrel of beer to the corner-table. In the darkest nook of the inn sat a gruffy giant, leaning on a battered table. He has been swigging there since early morning. With his foulmouthed cutting remarks applied to human kind he slowly sent the barflies off.

The guests quickly had about enough of him. A gladiator had become their combatant, a well-known hero of the hand-to-hand combat arenas. For a few drinks of gratis, he had undertaken to pitch out the 'blind drunk swine'. Now he was located in the city hospital with a crushed up cheekbone and a splintered jaw, though he recieved only _one_ back-handed punch.

The inn-keeper lifted the barrel onto the table with a loud growl.

„That was all. I have no more beer." said he sternly, looking straight into the giant's cloudy blue eyes. The drunkard leaned back, one of his huge palms on the table. The blood of the gladiator was dried onto his spreaded fingers.

„I could drink something else." he grunted hoarsely with a shrug. With a blank face he slowly licked the blood from his fingers.

The inn-keeper turned on his heels and left. He sent an assistant-cook for the city guard. Gorban wasn't so drunk yet that he couldn't notice the boy sliding away. With a menacing, knowing grin he tapped the barrel. 'Let them come!'

But no one came. And finally he managed to drink himself senseless.


	7. Scroll Seven: Tempest

_A/N: The necessary disclaimers apply to this chapter too. This chapter goes without the kind help of the wonderful **Zoop **(people who read her stories know how busy she is) so the mistakes You find are solely mine._

**Undying Dream**

**Scroll Seven**

**Tempest**

Seven ships of the new Toron-Ryek – in others opinion Ryek-Toron – Fleet made sail two days later. The flagship of Gorban Lyalmur named Harida led them into the East. They left the harbour of the capital and headed to the Concitator-Island to join to the new Fleet gathering there. The island had been under the command of Trodar on-Shinean for more than two decades. But not for much longer.

The sailors shipping on the Harida were prattling among themselves as sailors always did… „The Warlord has taken a young, noble-born lady of Toron to wife" they whispered „Yes, he has her on board." Only few of them saw the Suessa. She seldom left the comfortable cubicle prepared for her in the bows. But the ones who actually saw her said, that her beauty matched her husband's strength.

And there were the other voices …. debating her worth, her motives, her _right_ to be the one to share life with their Lord. However, these voices were cut short when they reached Gorban's ears on the first day of their journey. A scowl darkened his face as he planted himself in front of the crew, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. „I will say this once and only once" he began, his cold gaze drifting above the crowd. His voice was deep, very calm and very menacing „Indeed, I have marry her reluctantly. But she IS my wife now. One more disrespectful word, glance or even _breath_ from you and I will break every single bone in your body. Slowly. Gladly."

He didn't ask if they understood the warning or not. Looking at the bowed heads and averted eyes, he knew they did.

The wrath of the sea caught up with them on the third day of their journey. The mages of the Fleet had been frowning till early morning, blinking nervously on the opalescent sky. After he had heard their gloomy premonitions, Gorban sent flag-sings to the other ships and did all the necessary precautions. The dropdoors of the cargo-bay have been sealed after hundreds of barrels filled with paraffin had been checked and double-checked. And his wife was moved from the bows into the security of his great cubicle in the pooptower. They did everything they could, yet they couldn't be prepared for what happened two hours after midday.

Angry blue clouds were darkening the sky behind the fleet, silent thunderbolts flashed through them. The colour of the sea turned from turquoise to steel-grey. The waves grew fast and white froth began to appear on the top of them. The clouds – almost black already - were getting closer and closer as the first gusts of wind caught up with the ships.

The wind became stronger with every moment, tearing away the froth from the edges of the now towering waves. The sails were streching to the breaking point, the poles and yards began to creak. The helmsmen blinked with growing distress at the huge, black-clad figure behind them, but Gorban didn't change their course. His mages had already warned him: there was no place for them to hide today. His cloak billowed around him, his white mane whipped across his face, but Gorban was standing steadily, his feet rooted to the deck at shoulders-width. The cutwater ripped the waves like a knife and they were flying. Flying above the endless depths of the sea, chased by the raging whirlwind. And Gorban stood there proudly, his broad chest challenging the tempest. And he grinned.

Later he wanted to hear the reports of the captains of the Fleet, so he called for his Prime Mage. The man who appeared on his side a minute later was skinny, pale and surprisingly young. His long, green robe clung to his body. A bold patch was shining on the top of his head, framed with rain-soked brown hair. His grey gaze rested calmly on his Lord as he waited for his orders.

„I need reports, Marcus. Captain Shirido's from the left flank first." said Gorban. The young mage nodded and shut his eyes. His mind drifted away, seeking another. When he found it in a mile's distant, silently he cast a spell and secured the connection. When he opened his eyes, it was not _him_ who faced the Warlord.

„My Lord" Captain Shirido's distant voice coming from Marcus's mouth was hardly audible in the wind.

In half an hour Gorban Lyalmur knew everything what was to know about the Fleet. He patted Marcus's bony shoulder and said:

„Thank you, my son. Be ready, I shall need you again before the storm is over."

Marcus nodded. Life returned into his eyes as he gained back full control above his body and mind.

And then, in the middle of this mad racing the course of the wind suddenly changed. It came from slightly starboard now, instead from behind. The tempestuous waters roared and splashed the crew head to toe with icy cold water. But not only the crew. As the Harida started wobbling from left to right and back, the hungry sea reached the leeches of the lower sails. Suddenly tones of salt-water bathed and _pushed_ the sails and booms downwards. As the swaying continued, more and more water came both sides, throwing them off balance. The danger was apparent and demanded immediate action.

Gorban didn't hesitate. He saw that they couldn't scandalize the lower mainsail the normal way. They hadn't got enough time and he couldn't send enough men to furl the stone-heavy sail. His voice thundered above the decks:

„Helmsmen, two degrees backboard! Bo'son, let down the lower mainsail immediately! Cut the rigs and down with it!"

He stood by the balustrade of the pooptower and watched his crew's struggling. He didn't even blink as the downpour began to lash his face. The frosty raindrops felt like cutting blades on his skin. The Harida began to turn, obeying the push of the rudder, but she was not fast enough. Not nearly enough.

A moment later a huge wave emerged on starboard. The tide rose and towered above them with gut-clenching slowness. When its height almost reached the point where Gorban stood, it washed over them. The noise was deafening, it absorbed the scared cries and helpless moans of the sailors. The wretched men were caught up and swept away like leaves in a hurricane. Gorban froze for a moment and only watched them find their watery grave. But then a choking howl left his lips. He saw something _different_ disappearing in the cruel abyss. It seemed to be a cloak. A white, _feminine_ cloak.

With all his might he dashed over the staircase leading down onto the middle deck.

oOoOoOo

Rebeca huddled up against the outer wall of the pooptower under the staircase leading up to the top. She was there ever since the swaying of the ship had begun. She had to leave Gorban's cubicle, she felt like suffocating in there. It was not much better outside, she had to admit. Her teeth were clattering, her white cloak soaked to the skin. The wind was so strong that she could hardly breathe. Slowly she was stumbling toward the staircase, almost tumbling down on the slippery deck. She managed to grab the stairs and hold her stance.

The tidal wave washed over them when she tread on the first step. The churning water hit her with the force of a charging bull. It pushed all air out of her lunges and ripped her cloak off of her. She would have been swept away if her feet hadn't got nipped between two steps.

Rebeca wanted to scream, but only a pathetic little whimper left her mouth. Her stomach lift off to her throat as the deck was pulled from under her feet. Coughing she desperately clung to the newel. Slowly she regained her balance and looked up.

Above her, on the top of the stairs she saw Gorban. He was literally flying downwards, his feet not even touching the steps. His face ashen, eyes wide with horror.

Then he registered the woman standing in his way. His hands grabbed the balusters instantly. With a squealing sound his palms broke his momentum within a yard, leaving a trail of blood behind on the wet wood.

Gorban stopped before her almost toe-to-toe.

„What the hell are you doing here?" He growled through gritted teeth. The fear or concernor _whatever_ he had felt before was gone now, his eyes narrow with fury. „Go back inside!"

„Please, no! Could I not stay … with you? I am so ….." she faltered when Gorban's hands grabbed her shoulders and shake her with brutal force.

„Are you mad? Enough of your stupidity and get out of my sight! Now!" He pushed her away so roughly that she almost tumbled. Ignoring her welling up tears he turned to leave.

Rebeca stared at his back for a long moment. His vise-like grip caused her pain of course, but it was his resentment, contempt and almost-hate what hurt the most. Without a word she turned on her heels and headed back to the cubicle.

She couldn't take two steps before the next wave-monster beat the decks. This time there was nothing she could grab and at that moment she lacked the _will_ to fight. With a clear consciousness she let the sea drift her beyond the strake.

As she dove under water the surface hit her head hard. The world suddenly became silent and blurry and comfortingly cool. Rebeca sank slowly, her body and mind were completely languid. She watched apathetically the last bubbles leaving her mouth. Everything began to fade away. Suddenly a huge, black and white shadow broke the surface. It approached her fast. An orca? Or a man perhaps? She didn't care. Silence…. Blur…

oOoOoOo

Gorban hit the water with soles first, his spine straight. The pain was excruciating for a moment, as if every bone in his body had been broken. But he didn't mind. He _had to_ follow the girl. Three hundred pounds of muscle and stubbornness dove into the ice-cold water. Clouds of silvery bubbles swirled around him. He spreaded his arms and slowed his sinking. Scanning the depths for Rebeca felt like smoldering needles stabbed into his eyes.

He found her almost immediately. She was not too far from him, floating slowly. When he reached her, he wreathed his left arm around her from behind, just below her armpits. Her body was so limp, so helpless… As he kicked themselves toward the surface, his stomach knotted. He felt something painful, something he …. well, he _never_ had felt before, except once. Not ten minutes ago, when he thought he had _lost_ her. The feeling was unfamiliar, inexplicable and uncontrollable. It was panic.

He could use only one of his arms. The weight of Rebeca and his water-filled boots was almost too much. The water was so cold, that his heart froze. He needed all his willpower to _not_ to breathe. In a minute he felt his lungs burning with live coals. Gritting his teeth he fastened his eyes on the shadow of the Harida and ignored everything else.

Two more minutes – each one as long as a lifetime – and his face finally broke through the surface. They were forty yards behind the Harida. Gorban gasped for air, his body shook with raspy coughs. He yanked Rebeca upwards. The rough movement of his stone-hard arm pressed the water out of her lunges and she came round with a choking sob. Gorban had never heard such a beautiful sound before.

He turned onto his back and embraced the girl tightly to his chest. Rebeca's head was resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed. Gorban tried to hold her face above water as he wrestled the tempestuous waves and sneaky maelstroms. His mind reached out for Marcus with the silent Mindspeech.

Almost immediately a magic-guided rope splashed into the water next to them. Gorban grabbed it, twined it around his wrist and at the next moment they were lifted into security.


End file.
